Fog everywhere, ghostly apparitions being made before my eyes, pulling themselves apart and back together again. The fog masks my surroundings, making me vulnerable and heaving with dread. A tree
somewhere to my left groans and swoons, enacting a dance to tantalise and petrify me. A breeze plucks and pulls at my hair like cold fingers, but I'm rooted to this spot, blind and terrified, as
the fog glides across my vision.

Fog everywhere, stroking my cheek with its icy breath. Fog everywhere, and footsteps, footsteps pulsing and echoing around me. I wheel and turn, locked in my own death dance, only the sound of
blood and footsteps in my ears.

He emerged through the fog like a feeling, draped in a rolling cloak of mist. Steel heels ringing out on compacted earth, a holster slung low across his hip. This was it; here was my Grim Reaper,
my messenger, my end, my death. Through the haze he came, plotting my demise, the grin of the Devil pulled tight across his face, eye sockets were gun barrels staring back at me.

The whine of the bullet etched itself into my eardrums, and gun smoke burst into the fog, like lovers they entwined and consumed each other. Pain bloomed in my chest like a flower, spilling its
claret pollen into my hands, then darkness and nothing more.

Fog lingered in my hair like prying fingers, filled my throat, pricked at my staring eyes but only the Devil's messenger was there to care. The miasma swallowed him as quickly as he had emerged and
steel heel heartbeats drummed my funeral fog dance.